


Actaea & Lyssa

by capripian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hunt!Daisy, Hurt/Comfort, Queerplatonic Relationships, Set after MAG 132: Entombed, Set before MAG 158: Panopticon, Songfic, The Dark, The Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capripian/pseuds/capripian
Summary: "Their rage is well-knownBut we don't hunt aloneBeside you I stand"They walk in the woods, often. They need to get out of the Institute, out of the cramped rooms and dusty air and tight spaces. Everyone knows to fear the monsters in the forest. Beastly things, that will kill under cover of night. Everyone knows to fear the Wolf. Savage hunter, apex predator.Or: The monsters who fight against you will never compare to the monsters that walk alongside you.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	Actaea & Lyssa

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is titled after Actaea and Lyssa by the Mechanisms. The lyrics used throughout it are all from Actaea and Lyssa as well. I definitely recommend you check it out, it's a great song the Mechanisms did about the Greek myth of Actaeon, a hunter cursed to turn into a stag.
> 
> The events of this story are written as existing somewhere between when Daisy escaped the Buried and the Season 4 finale, but it's not much more precise than that. Enjoy!

_Breathe in the air_

_The last of its kind_

They walk in the woods. It isn't uncommon, of course, for them to do so. About one or two times a week, Daisy will come to Jon's desk or he will give her a call. They know, at this point, how to tell it's necessary. Jon sees the hollow, frightened look in Daisy's eyes. He recognizes it from looking in the mirror. Daisy sees the shuddering in Jon's hands, worse than they ever were _before_. Hers start to ache in sympathy. This particular case may have been more… dramatic than most. 

He's walking through the Institute, following the paths he normally takes between the break room and his office, when he sees a spider on the wall that definitely wasn't there yesterday. It's big, hairy, and even though he _knows,_ objectively, that spiders are good for the environment, he still can't bring himself to trust them. He jumps, startled, pushing his back against a door. One of the supply closets, no doubt, and a look at the small sign next to the door confirms it. 

Someone is in there. Jon Knows it, a sudden jolt of information. Someone is in there, and they are scared. He hates how the taste of it satiates him. It's easy enough to let a few minutes pass before he brings himself to open the door, a few minutes to drink it in. 

It's Daisy, of course it's Daisy. Curled up on the floor of the closet, her newly cut hair revealing her scar. She's crying, quiet sobs that seem to penetrate her whole body. Jon just looks at her, stunned. He's seen her like this before, of course he has, but now he has to know himself monstrous. He chose the Watcher before her, before his- 

Jon doesn't know what they are, exactly. He knows she loves Basira, of course, and he loves Martin the same, but. He knows she hasn't told Basira about it, not the way she tells him. She doesn’t have to, she knows he was right there alongside her, but she still does. He tells her things he wouldn't tell Martin(but he doesn't tell Martin anything anymore, does he?). So she's… She's _Daisy_. 

She's Daisy, and she hasn't noticed him open the door, and somehow that makes it feel so much worse to stand by and watch and look upon suffering. Jon knows that's his job. Not with her, though. Never with her. So he- hesitant, hands shaking again like they have been- stops watching. Starts acting. 

His voice is quiet, soft, all of the Archivist's harsh enunciation stripped away. "Daisy, I'm here." and the rhythm of her tears skips a beat and she looks up. Jon can feel her eyes on him. Sharp eyes, eyes that can track and chase and _hunt,_ but they’re soft for him. 

Her face is slick with tear tracks still, and she has to breathe a moment before she speaks up, but he waits. "Jon?", she says, and she's almost too quiet for him to hear. Almost. He lowers a hand- shaking, but less- and offers it to her. This is often how it goes. Too-Close-I-Cannot-Breathe does not let go of its victims easily, and even the embrace of a friend can suffocate. 

Daisy's fingers entwine with his after a moment, light upon his burn but firm still, despite it all. Jon helps her stand, and- slowly, shakily- she does. He knows what they have to do.

_Into the wild_

_Stay true of aim_

The forest is foggy, mist curling around the tall trees, and Jon tries not to let it remind him of what Martin's eyes look like now. He fails, of course. But Daisy's hand still rests in his, so he can put it out of his mind for a while. She looks better, he thinks, here in the forest. Healthier. She tilts her head up to look at the sky, and Jon knows this is good for her. It's good for him, too. He's beholden to the Institute, and he can still feel the pull to go back to work, but breathing is a relief here. Not timed for the statements, not short or musty. Long, deep breaths. 

They don't talk much when they walk. Daisy has always been quiet, and Jon's long-winded speeches are used more and more to the Eye's benefit these days. But she still speaks, after a while of strolling. 

"Have you spoken to Martin?" she says, and Jon's hands start to sweat. He knows three things. One, Daisy knows the answer. Two, she knows he trusts Martin to do what's right. Three, she doesn't think he's making the right decision about it. 

"I haven't." He's tried, certainly, to walk into Martin's office under the pretense of giving him some files. He's asked the others in the Archives enough that they're sick of him, and even gone to people in other departments about it. Martin doesn't want to be found.

"You think you shouldn't." It's an expression of fact, and Daisy pointing it out just draws Jon's attention to it. He can't, really. Even if he wants to. 

"It'd disrupt whatever Peter-" 

" _Peter_ shouldn't have any say in it," she says, interrupting him as she does it. She's holding his hand tighter now, and Jon finds he doesn't mind it. Its pressure is nothing like the coffin, squeezing and hurting and pushing. It… grounds him.

Jon sighs. "He told me not to find him," and there's that kernel inside of _I want to, I need him._ He knows Daisy can tell. He's told her as much before. "And besides," he continues, "What about Basira?" 

"What about her?" Daisy asks. He knows as well as she does that they haven’t been as close, after. He feels the same way. They’ve been mourned, and people moved on. He knows, objectively, he can’t blame them. Part of him does anyways. 

“Did you-”, Jon says, and he has to stop walking for a second, compose himself, push down the insistence of It-Knows-You. She watches him do it, her fingers digging into his wrist as a silent reminder. “I would like to know if you told her about any of-” and he waves to their surroundings- “this.”

Daisy just shakes her head, looks down at her feet as they start to walk again. “She doesn’t want to hear about that. She has more important things to worry about.”

“She didn’t tell you that,” Jon says, and he doesn’t Know that but he knows it, he knows Basira- certainly not like Daisy does, but he knows she wouldn’t. He hopes she wouldn’t.

She looks away. “She didn’t have to. I can tell.” 

“But wh-” he starts to say, before she pushes him to the ground. She lets go of his hand, shushes him. Something is wrong. Daisy looks up, and he can see, in her keen reflexes, a hunter’s demeanor. She stands there, attentive, ready to fight, looking around for the assailant- or maybe it’s just her prey.

A shadow darts through the trees, and he can’t- he rubs at his eyes. Why can’t he see it? Why can’t he _See_ it? The forest is darker than it just was, isn’t it? He doesn’t remember there being so many shadows. Jon stands, and Daisy shoots him a glare. Her teeth are too sharp, her irises are yellowing. He can still See her, Alice Tonner, touched by the Eye, the Stranger, and the Buried. Avatar of the Hunt.

A crunch from behind them alerts Daisy, and she runs after it, and he Knows she’s not herself. He whirls around, and when she howls he’s sure. The Wolf is out. And she’s hungry.

_Starving, hunting_

_Can’t tell my prey from my friend_

The Wolf sees the heavyblack servants of the Forever-Blind, creeping-crawling, circling its packbound. They will not hurt him. The Wolf will not allow it. It leaps forward, eyes looking towards the pitchdark nightbeast, claws tearing into one of them- the largest, the leader. It feels the muckwater sensation on its fur, the nightbeast biting into its shoulder, but it will not stop the Wolf. The darkdust coats its teeth, its throat, falls deep into its belly, fills it with coldhollow second-hand fear, but its blood burns bright. 

The leader falls to the Wolf, and it tears into the murkyflesh of the corpse, looking up when it feels the loudblaze in its blood. It looks to the Archivist, shakinghands quivervoiced Archivist. He says something- “What do you want with us?”- and it can feel the Watcher’s gaze on its hide, feel the bitterstatic Compulsion, and it growls, but the Archivist’s question is not for it. The nightbeasts laugh, circle towards him, and it recognizes them as more prey.

It rushes towards the blindmonsters, bites through the neck of one, claws another across the throat. The lifefire bloodycalling keeps it moving, keeps it warm and hunting. It growls, pouncing on a third and biting into its chest, ripping out a dark heart. It swallows it, feels the slimysorrow in its blood, moves onto a fourth, a fifth, a sixth.

There are so many darkbeasts, and the Wolf’s blood pumps loud in its ears, and when one starts to run its blood calls for chase, for Hunting its fleeingfearful prey. It runs after the darkbeast, panting as it chases around the woods, always letting the prey get just a bit ahead, and when the thrill of the chase wears down it catches up, clawing open its corpse, ripping out its bloodyblack organs, and the blood tells it there is more prey in its forest.

_Sister, don’t you know me, sister?_

_Don’t you know me? Don’t you know me?_

The Wolf turns, runs to the prey, hears its stillbeating heart, tastes its silversharp fear. It narrows in on the prey’s location, sees it looking about, always _looking_ . It looks to the Wolf, weaktrembling hands up like it will be protected. Eyes wide, and it’s beginning to- _what is it doing?_

“Daisy, I-” And the Wolf growls, tail thrashing, muzzle still slipperyslick with shadow blood. Daisy is a flower, gentlesweet, and it has never been that. Never will be. The prey flinches, quiets itself, before opening its eyes. The Wolf cannot remember if its eyes were open before, but now they are _open,_ greengleaming brightglaring allknowing and open and they can See it.

“Who am I?”, it says, and the Wolf cries out in anger and its claws find the prey, scratch into its chest and still the question presses upon it, truthforcing static, and Beholding chokes it until it must drop its prey, the _Archivist_ , let its bleeding slow as it hisses in pain, and it has to answer, in its growldeep voice dripping with dark water.

**It is the prey, next in the chase, already wounded, and it will fall before the Wolf. The Wolf can run forever, and the prey will never stand a chance, shattereasy bones, shakynervous voice, frailhungry body, easykilled prey, tried to** **_Compel_ ** **the Wolf and the Wolf will not allow it.**

“Who am I?” it asks again, and the Wolf feels the pull of the Eye on itself, and it tries to back away but the Archivist’s static nets it in, traps it within the bounds of its sight, and even as its- as his- blood soaks his shirt, it has to speak once more. 

**He is the Archivist, bound to the Eye, monstersight questionasker beastly avatar, and the Wolf has gotten to him before, cut into his staticspeaking throat, and it will not stop this time, because it kills monsters and the Archivist is monstrous and the Wolf will track him down and rid the world of his evil eye once and for all.**

“Who am I?” he asks once more, and the Wolf can tell he is Knowing her, every little detail before him like a particularly intriguing book, and though his voice is filled with bloody pain he is strong in his question, and she knows she has to answer him.

**He is Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, from what the Sectioned officers call the Magnus Institute. He is Jonathan Sims, the one Basira gave all those tapes to, the murder suspect that seems to have wormed his way into their lives. He is Jonathan Sims, the one she made dig a monster’s grave, the man no more monstrous than she is. He is Jonathan Sims, the one she walked into the Unknowing next to, the one who they lost just as surely as they lost her. He is Jonathan Sims, the one who dived into Forever Deep Below Creation for her, who held her hand and led her to the way out. He is-**

“Jon?”, Daisy says, panting, beastly still but returning to herself, and Jon looks up at her and smiles weakly.

“Don’t listen to the blood,” he says, and she sees now the bloodied state he’s in, sees what _she_ did to him, and she feels the wet on her face, blood and shadow and tears all mixing into one. “Listen to the quiet.”

He closes his eyes, and she runs to him, just human now, and Daisy may not be the wolf but she still knows he’s her pack, her anchor, her humanity- and that’s a silly thing to think, because he’s not even human anymore, and yet. Jon is still a person, and not only that but he’s _her_ person, the person she can trust, the person she can tell about everything- the Buried, the Hunt, Basira. All of it. And he’ll listen to her, and he’ll comfort her, and right now he’ll lie on the forest floor because of what she let herself become. 

She runs to him, and she hopes-wishes-begs that she came to her senses in time, that he’ll be okay, because he’s _Jon,_ he has to be okay. And she reaches for his hand, takes it in hers, squeezes tight, hopes he can feel her. Nothing. His hand stays limp, unmoving, and Daisy knows there isn’t much time.

She picks him up, holds him in the fireman’s carry the force taught her, and she tries to ignore the way she feels so much stronger now, healthier, _full_ in a way she hasn’t since the Unknowing. She didn’t want this, she tells herself. She doesn’t know if that’s the truth. 

Right now it doesn’t matter. What matters is Jon, slung over her shoulder, three ugly slashes in his chest, his blood wet against her skin. Daisy runs. He has to be safe, he has to. She knows they’re half a mile from her car, and she tugs deep inside on the ill-gotten strength the Dark’s monsters gave her, uses it to run. He has to survive. She doesn’t know what she would do with herself if he didn’t. Wolves are social beasts, and so are people, and it's to that panicked hope that she runs, until she loses herself in it.

Daisy sits in the hospital waiting room. The details on how she got here are blurry, but she knows they took Jon, pulled his hand from hers, stole him away into a sharp smelling room, and that they would save him. From the Wolf. From her. Her breath is ragged, and she wonders how taxing the run through the forest was on her body. It doesn’t matter. As long as Jon is safe, alive, she’ll be fine. 

A nurse comes to see her, tells her she can see him now. She walks in and looks at Jon, the bandages wrapping around his torso. He looks almost… serene, she thinks. She sits next to him, and almost on instinct she reaches out, holds his hand in hers, squeezes.

He squeezes back, and Daisy knows everything is going to be okay.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Leave a comment and/or a kudos if you liked it. My tumblr is @capripian.


End file.
